Page 42 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
It could also cost me. The word borrowed sits there like a dare. Sharing levels the playing field and may cost us the edge we really need in this challenge. God knows I’m no tree-decorating expert.
Twenty thousand pounds and an almost guaranteed win—mine to lose. Worse, it’s his to lose too. Memories That Matterisn’t just a name to Teddy; it’s personal. It’s why he’s sat there for twenty minutes, all his normal restlessness subdued, totally focused as he sifts through the mess with quiet determination.
I drop the glass bauble in my hand back on the pile.
“Stop,” I order Teddy, and he looks up, surprised.
If I say this out loud, I can’t unsay it. I’m choosing kindness over the win, and I’m oddly proud to let everyone see friendship matters more to me than my ego.
“Tools down, people,” I call, jumping up onto the stage.
They turn and stare at me.
“What’s the point in going further when none of us can make something decent out of this mess? Look around—we’re all battling the same problem.”
“So we just stop?” Haley’s voice quivers as she casts a fearful look at the bare trees. My pulse pounds. This is the right play, but a risky one. I can feel the loss before it happens: the shot of someone else accepting the cheque; the look on Teddy’s face if I’ve misread what matters.
“Just long enough to be smart about this,” I say. “We each pick a theme and trade decorations to match.”
“But what about the competition?” Sam seems reluctant.
Of course she is. I am too. I’ve spent my whole career squeezing wins out of tight corners; the reflex to grasp what should be mine—not share—was hammered into me in childhood. But this is Haley’s wedding, not a courtroom. If we do it my usual way, she’s left in a muddle. If we try something different, she gets the magical Christmas wedding she deserves. And I accept the chance I’ve just made losing more likely. For me. For Teddy.
“I get it, Sam, I really do. There’s so much at stake here. Twenty thousand pounds and four worthy charities. But there’s also Haley and her wedding, and right now that’s more important.”
Saying it doesn’t make the thought of losing hurt less. It doesn’t quell the uneasy realisation of how much what Teddy wants matters to me. It doesn’t quiet the unsettling truth that, after only a few days,hematters to me. But it does make me certain.
“Think about it—we’re all friends here, all here for Haley. Competition or not, don’t we want to give her the best bloody trees we can? I’d rather lose than see this ballroom look like a dog’s breakfast.”
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Teddy says immediately.
Relief bubbles up, fizzy as a laugh I have to swallow. He’s with me on this; sees the same problem and reaches for the same answer. He’s willing to risk the donation to his charity for our friends’ special day. It’s like stepping into the same current, shoulder to shoulder. I’m used to being right on my own; being right together is different. Warmer. Dangerous, because I like it.
“Rachel’s right,” he says. “We help each other; we all win.”
The way he looks at me when he says my name—like I’ve just solved world hunger instead of a decoration crisis—makes me forget about blue ornaments entirely.
“What if we all want the same things?” Liv asks.
“Then we negotiate. After all, we’re friends first, competitors second.”
“Great idea,” Ollie says. “Let’s do this.”
Once we’ve agreed on our themes—ours is ‘Let It Snow’—we simply free range around the room, no formal swaps, each of us trusting that we’re heading for the same goal, taking only what we need, not grasping at things we don’t.
I spot Teddy frowning down at his hand, studying something he found in Ollie’s rejects pile.
“Who the fuck thought the Tardis should be turned into a Christmas decoration?”
“Someone who lovesDoctor Whoso much they’d want one,” I reply, as he sets it to one side and returns to rummage some more. I look at the police phone box shape of the Tardis, leaning drunkenly against the other discarded decorations, and it hits me—it’s blue. I don’t care that there isn’t anything at all snowy about it. That Tardis is going on our tree. The little competitive streak in me flares brightly again as I place it on a bottom branch, serving its purpose without ruining what I think is a tree pretty enough to win.
Lunch passes in muted conversation and half-eaten sandwiches. Most of the group nurse their coffee like medicine, still paying for last night’s overindulgence. The usual laughter is replaced by winces at loud noises and squinted eyes against the afternoon sun streaming through the dining-room windows. Teddy and I exchange smug glances at our lucky escape.
When Loreena’s friend Tabitha, a fellowReal Wives of Watfordcast member and interior designer, arrives, she gushes over our tree decorations, her enthusiasm bright against the other teams’ collective hangover stupor. The trees all look stunning, twinkling under the light of the ballroom chandeliers, but there can only be one winner.
The announcement comes and my stomach dips. Not ours. I force a smile and clap for the winners, hands heavy. We were always long shots, but I pushed for my idea, and that probably didn’t help. It stings.
Out of habit, I start counting points: two wins apiece, and we’re tied with Haley and Christian. Tomorrow brings another challenge, another chance at the final win. With no idea what it is, still I’m already planning how to take it. There’s a stab of unease that it’s automatic. I don’t like losing—never have—but when did needing the win become proof I’m worth something? Dad’s approving nod. The partner’s seat. I’ve been calling it ambition. Maybe it’s fear.
